Tickle Me Ink

I dreamt I dreamt a little dream
(A worthy one, were I to deem)
Of many beasts, of crickets, cows,
Of frogs and bats, of zebras, sows,
The platypus (the beast absurd),
But then I heard
A giant bird.

I sought to turn around and see
A beam of black fly over me.
A feather fell from feathered wing;
I bent to then pick up the thing.
Some liquid dripped as quick as wink.
'tis what I think?
My word! It's ink!

I yelled to ask the bird its name,
But came up empty in my aim.
The vulture's nephew? Raven's kin?
A crow's descendant flying in?
The moment 'rived, but did not last.
The bird flew fast
And then was past.

I thought I sat to sit and think
And ponder on this bird of ink,
Lamenting it was gone for good
And not quite fully understood.
I soon was broken from my trance.
Oh, thank you, Chance!
Another glance!

Declining from its lofty soar,
It flew much lower than before
And landed less than yards away,
Enough for me to bow and say,
"I'm Adam, sir. How do you do?
I'm new here too.
Who, then, are you?"

It did not open up to speak,
But held secure its mammoth beak.
Instead of spitting out a sound,
It waddled past my standing ground.
I kept my place and wouldn't budge.
It gave a nudge.
Oh no! A smudge!

The darkest substance on my arm
Was not enough to cause alarm,
But still, my mouth agape, amazed,
I looked up high. The Lord be praised!
I simpered widely, tickled pink.
The bird, I think,
Produces ink!

I chuckled then with pleasant mirth
As glimpsed I next upon the earth.
The footprints of my avian friend
Had looked like something someone penned!
I neither knew, nor ever heard
A simple bird
Could write with word.

"Hello there, Man. I'm glad we met.
I do not have a name just yet,
But you may call me what you choose
And that's the name that I will use."
"I've named the camel, ape and mink,
So let me think,
O bird of ink."

"I have it then," I cried with glee,
"And henceforth 'til eternity,
You shall be Quillard (keep in mind,
The only spec'men of your kind).
We'll use your ink on leaves and rocks
Or draw on crocs
Black chicken pox!"

"That sounds like fun, my fleshy mate,"
Typed Quillard on his dusty slate,
"But needed I a little rest
And time's the essence of my quest.
But please before I take to air,
Do you have there
Some food to spare?"

No time to waste, no time to kill,
I let my new friend have his fill
And just before it would suffice,
I gave him last some uncooked rice.
He hugged me tight, then hit the sky.
Though soaked with dye,
I waved goodbye.

But seconds after leaving ground,
I heard an awful, popping sound.
My friend exploded in a flash!
"O bird of eb'ny, bird of ash!
Oh, why'd you have to die so young?!"
Screamed I from lung
To fiery tongue.

In mem'ry of my treasured peer,
I write to all you reading here.
Remember, yes, the unicorn,
But also, please, the inkbird, born
For all to share and died too soon:
A life compared t' a black balloon,
A life too short, but in his rift
Of time, he gave a few a gift.
To those we call th' artistic hordes,
Please use his feathers as your swords.
Profess your joy, lament your ills
And in his honor, call them quills.
You must not from this mission shrink.
How blessed are we for birds of ink!